


We Join As Parallel Lines

by angeburger



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Faerie AU, Hey they're not murder husbands this time, In which Veronica is a knight, Jarchie - Freeform, King Jughead, M/M, Pre-slash I guess?? Or the process of it becoming slash idk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-08 01:50:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10375200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angeburger/pseuds/angeburger
Summary: Forsythe was 10 when he was crowned King Under the Mountain.He was 13 when he met Archie.He was 14 when he became Jughead.In which Jughead is the king of a dying land, and must make a dire decision.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Usagi here. I've been chewing on this idea for a while and decided to finally write the damn thing. Title comes from Sayuri's "Heikousen (Parallel lines)". 
> 
> Thanks to Mads (oopsiwroteathing) for betaing this. She took a lot of time out and I'm grateful. 
> 
> Comments or concerns? Hmu on Tumblr @pinksugarsheartattack.

He’d forgotten how heavy the crown was. 

 

It looked simple enough - a small platinum circlet worked by tiny hands, leaves and flowers and the Old Tongue.

 

He wondered when he stopped feeling that weight on his brow, on his shoulders. Like the land itself had been resting on his back. Maybe it was after he'd allowed himself to start forgetting, knowing he'd be taken care of (even if the world was falling apart around him). He still wasn't sure. 

 

Maybe because he'd hidden it for so long. A glamour to hide, to make him normal, human-looking, unthreatening. He'd been wearing it for so long now that it permanently stuck to his person, something that had actually hurt to remove. He'd only removed it willingly a handful of times since his childhood.

 

“Are you sure about this?” Jellybean's voice is soft, scared for her big brother. They've always been together. She doesn't even have an early memory without him. 

 

She's not sure she can do this without him. But she can't tell him that - won’t. If he thinks she still needs him, he'll make himself stay, regardless of what he wants to do (needs to do) with his life.

 

His expression changes when he looks at the red-haired thief who made all of this go into motion long ago. It's tenderness and hunger, gratitude and relief. It's uncharacteristically soft. It’s not the brother she knows. 

 

It's friendship as its own kind of magic, taking two parallel lines and crossing them. As an alchemy when it became more, knotting the lines together. Jellybean knew it once she'd come to visit after her brother had gotten sick unto dying, seeing the redhead guarding her brother in his frailty like it was his purpose, like his own life depended on it.

 

Forsythe had never been a soft king. He would not be remembered as a kind or as a gentle man, though Jellybean knew differently. She knew how he'd had to be harder, and at times crueler because he _ felt _ so much. She knew how different he'd been around her, helping her dress and braid her hair, since their mother hadn't been around to do so. She remembered how he sang her the old songs, held her when she had nightmares.

 

“I'm sure.” The words feel curiously heavy yet feather light as they roll off of his tongue. Her expression tightens, and his heart suddenly aches. “Besides, you always wanted to be Queen, right?”

 

_ Not like this, _ is what she wants to tell him, but she knows she'll choke on it if she tries. She feels her eyes watering and tries not to look at him. 

 

“I have to admit, Queen Forsythia has a nice ring to it,” the redhead’s voice is buoyant but it's forced. He reaches out, hand cupping her achingly young face. 

 

“I'll take care of him.” His voice changes, and it's softer, something just for her. It's tempered with steel, a force of will. 

 

All she can do is nod, lip trembling as she bites. She will not cry, not now. 

 

“You promise?”

 

“I'll die before I let anything happen to him.” 

 

She nods to herself, trying to be satisfied with his answer, with how his expression changes. He's all thunder to her brother's lightning. 

 

Ronnie is next to her, looking both bored and worried. She reaches out and squeezes her shoulder. It's enough. Her shoulders hitch as she sniffs, scrubbing her eyes dry. Her spine lengthening as she stands straight, tall, in a way she never has before.

 

“Then let's begin.” It's a huff that makes him smile. “Before I change my mind and keep him and change you, sir,” at this she points at the human boy, “into a bunny or something.”

 

\----

 

Forsythe was 10 when he was crowned King Under the Mountain. 

 

At least, that's what the humans called him. They couldn't pronounce his real name, a name soon becoming lost to his people, his kingdom.

 

He was 11 when he led his first campaign, trying to protect what was left of his land and people when it was all starting to mesh and blend into  _ Riverdale _ , into a human place. 

 

He was 12 when he first killed a man. A human that had been hurting only girl fae. He hadn't felt a damn thing after, and that scared him (wasn't he supposed to feel something like guilt at a time like this?). He later outwardly attributed it to being a king and protecting his people. Inside, though, he'd just felt numb. It’d been near the elementary school, which, in his rage, he nearly burnt down by mistake. 

 

How dare that human, how  _ fucking _ dare he. Laying hands on his most vulnerable of subjects, on children. They'd been children, those girls that he'd defiled. It made him dizzy and hot, blood rushing to his head too fast. It’d him taste lemons and acid, made the magic that'd come to his hands physically hurt, cutting up his fingers and palms as he wielded it. The fire had been a relief, a welcome reprieve. 

 

He was 13 when he met Archie. He'd made it so that transferred into school from a random place humans wouldn't ask questions about. 

 

(When asked why he, a faerie king, was going to a human school, he wryly replied, “Oh, I don't know. There’s something so refreshing about not helplessly watching your people and lands fall to shit day by day.” His advisors promptly withdrew the question, bid him happy trails, and never asked again.)

 

Except when Archie showed interest about his past when the magic should have been pushing said interest  _ away _ . It should have made Archie not care about the past, not sit him down and want to play 20 questions. Forsythe found himself constantly dodging excited questions from the redhead, so for a month or two, all he felt was irritation and exhaustion. Then, somewhere in the interim, he got used to it. 

 

Curiouser and curiouser. 

 

He was 14 when he became Jughead. He'd always been Jughead to Jellybean, and to Ronnie. Ronnie had always been there. It was strange seeing her in a dress and pearls and a grin, pretending they didn't know each other, that her family hadn’t served his since the dawn of time, that she hadn't become his de facto advisor since being crowned.

 

(He remembered her in her armor, a knight with a sharp sword and a sharper tongue, who rolled her eyes so much Jellybean warned her that she would simply take them away.)

 

No, maybe the better way of saying it was that when he was 14 he'd  _ allowed himself _ to become ‘Jughead’ to the boy with the scar between his brows, who'd never been afraid of him. The one who’d gotten into fight after fight on his behalf, angry that anyone had tried to bully him. 

 

Nevermind the fact that Jughead was able to  _ literally _ cook them all with a snap of his fingers. 

 

The boy with flame red hair, who always showed interest in his novels (because even then he'd been writing them), who seemed to love Jellybean as his own sister, who took him up to the treehouse where they'd camped out for days at a time.

 

Forsythe's heart had been with him even then, with each secret shared between them, each smile and laugh that'd cracked like ice with their voices changing. It made him want to scream - the pale hands that found a guitar and clumsily started to play, the dark eyes that always seemed excited, stars and fireworks hidden within them, the shoulder pressed against his when they skipped rocks across the river.

 

He knew this was a bad idea, getting close like this. He'd been warned, and repeatedly at that. They were parallel lines, never crossing, never meant to cross, with similar paths etched into the future. Yet at the same time, he couldn't help it. No one aside from Jellybean had shown him such kindness. In the end, Archie's future would take him far away from Riverdale, and Forsythe would still be there, Under the Mountain, when the other boy's bones were crumbling to dust.

 

Ronnie had noticed it straight away, and took him to Pop’s for a milkshake so they could talk. Pop’s was safe for them, because Pop himself was one of the folk. How humans didn't figure that out was a mystery to him - especially since there was so little magic and glamour protecting Pop and his secret.

 

“Are you crazy? No, really, Juggie have you lost your royal fucking mind?” She'd hissed as soon as their waitress had taken their order. 

 

Ronnie and Jellybean were the only ones who could talk to him like that back home. The rest? Tried for treason and made an example of. Not that he'd wanted or approved of that, but no one seemed to care what he wanted there. 

 

Their shakes came, and he poked the straw in, stirring it up. He couldn't meet her gaze. He couldn't think of a defense because he knew that this was a bad idea, of becoming friends with this impossible boy, of becoming more. 

 

“I just never...I never get to do what I want.” He's aware it sounds petulant and amends his statement. “I mean, no one asks if I'm happy back home. Aside from you and JB.” 

 

The misery in that statement is enough to stop her cold, drop all of the sharp words she had in her mental queue. 

 

“Is it that bad?” 

 

His laugh in response is a confused, broken thing. “Yeah, I'd say so.” His eyes go dark when they meet hers. “I'm just… I'm just an official body. I keep the peace. I try to keep our land, our people together. I am an organic machine designed to keep the crops watered and the masses fed.” He finally drinks down some of the shake, and the numbing cold that shoots straight to his sinuses is a welcome thing. He winces, waits for it to pass before continuing. 

 

“They care about Forsythe. They want to make sure I'll still do my job. But this real me?” He chuckles sadly, “they don't care about that at all.”

 

Ronnie waits for him to finish, thoughtfully drinking her own shake. “And you think Archie cares about you.” It's a statement, not a question.

 

Jughead doesn't even need to think before answering. “If just as a friend, yes. I want to believe he does.” 

 

She mulls over his words, feels the heartache, confusion, and conflict behind them. She watches his eyes, the way he breathes.

 

And she makes her decision. 

 

“I'm with you.” 

 

He blinks. “Really?”

 

She shrugs. “No. But someone has to have your back out here - we're surrounded by savages.” Looks straight at him. “But if he hurts you, I will end him.” She grins and it's a mad thing. “That is my job, after all.” 

 

He didn't expect that. Not in the least. He expected for Ronnie to spout the party line of  _ cease and desist  _ and _ this is for your own good  _ and  _ don't make me drag you back home until he forgets about you. _

 

Gratitude. It's swift and deep, humming in his veins as he looks up at her. “Are you sure? If I fail and they drag us both back…” He doesn't need to finish his sentence, watching her expression change. 

 

“I don't think I could live with myself otherwise. I'm your knight, your advisor. I know I'm basically supposed to roll you up in bubble wrap and carry you around but…” She shrugs, looking out the window. She's never been good with feelings, especially ones like these. “If you're going to live forever and be miserable doing it and be bound so tight by your various official duties that you can't breathe…I just. I don't think I could spend my life watching that.” 

 

Her eyes finally meet his again. “I couldn't bear it. Especially knowing that you had a chance at being happy. Even for a little bit. It's better than facing an eternity alone.” 

 

They look at each other for a long moment. Jughead takes her hand.

 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, squeezing her hand.

 

“Don't thank me yet.” The mad grin is back as she squeezes back. 

  
_ Because this is probably going to hurt. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jughead is 16 when his glamour starts to fail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thanks to Mads (@oopsiwroteathing) for betaing. You're amazing and the best ™.

Jughead is 16 when his glamour starts to fail. 

It's the glamour that keeps him looking like a normal human boy - no circlet on his brow, no markings on his skin aside from moles and freckles. 

 

It's the glamour that also keeps him safe from all of the iron in this godforsaken town along with the garlands of marsh marigolds, the dense clusters of rowan berries and pockets of clover that lurks beneath the surface, just waiting to be found. 

 

“It was supposed to keep you safe until you were 30! What the hell happened?” Ronnie is there, helping him empty his stomach into the toilet in his trailer. She's trying to hide her alarm - this is not normal, this should not be happening for another 13 or 14 years.

 

He finishes retching, picks himself up, swishes out the sick taste in his mouth with water from a plastic bottle. He avoids the tap now entirely - made up of iron-based alloys, it just makes things worse. He slides down the bathroom wall. He's tired and weak, and can't seem to keep anything down for more than a few hours at a time.

 

“I don't know,” he sighs, trying not to curl into a tiny ball. “Maybe it's a message from home.”

 

That makes Ronnie stop cold. “What do you mean?” 

 

“A few things. Maybe.” God, his mouth tastes so gross right now. It makes him wince. “Could be a message from the Senate - “

 

“You mean a 'stop fucking around with the humans and do your job’ sorta thing?” 

 

He nods in response, fighting another wave of nausea. “Or, it could be that humans are fucking things up at an even faster rate than we originally predicted.”

 

Her blood becomes ice. It was no secret that their land, their people were disappearing at a startling rate. The Senate back home frequently rattled their sabers over it. The cooler heads within it advocated sealing the entire country away, cutting it off human access forever. 

 

It was not a first solution. 

 

Fae and humans needed each other. Their relationship was one of symbiosis, give and take. It had been that way since the beginning.

 

“I don't think it's that.” Ronnie is desperately trying to convince herself as well as her King when she tells him that. 

 

He laughs weakly. “Losing this glamour's one of the few things that could kill me, and they're still arguing about where I choose to spend my time.” 

 

She smiles but she knows it's weak. She sits next to him, letting him put his head on her shoulder. She takes his hand, sweat-sticky and far too hot for her liking. 

 

“Ronnie?”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“I'm scared.” His voice is small. She's reminded of when they were children. Even then, she'd protected him.

 

But she can’t protect him from this. Not now. 

 

“I know.” It's the closest way she'll say that she is too, that she's fucking terrified and is almost out of options. She holds his hand a little tighter. “I sent word to Jellybean. We're gonna make sure you're okay.”

 

She turns to him, about to tell him more, only to find that he's fallen asleep. 

  
  
  


It goes on for another day and a half when Ronnie decides to get Archie. 

 

She didn't want to do this. Why get a human involved in a situation he clearly can't fix? But if Jughead's right about what's causing his glamour to fail, and if it's not the Senators trying to lure him home, then they’re all fucked anyway. May as well give him some comfort before he dies and the rest goes to hell. 

 

Archie drives as fast as he can, going into the trailer at a dead run. 

 

“Veronica?”

 

“In here!” 

 

He follows her voice into Jughead's room, where there's a small shivering lump in his bed, and Veronica by his side looking completely different. No dress, no pearls, almost no makeup. Hair pulled back severely into a bun, wearing old jeans. The pumps are the only thing that Archie recognizes. 

 

“What's wrong with him?” Ronnie can almost taste the dread, the fear, in his voice. 

 

Oh, she has so many responses for that. “He's sick.” 

 

“I can see that,” and it's through gritted teeth. “Why is he sick?” Seeing her there so close to him makes his stomach churn with jealousy, self-loathing for not being there quicker. 

 

His tone makes her stand, going over to him. This is a risk - a calculated one, but one all the same.  

 

“Go into the kitchen. Go get some ice from the freezer in a towel and bring it back. Okay?”

 

Her tone is suddenly gentle, concerned. It makes that sudden jealousy-loathing loop playing in Archie's head stop. He gives her a crisp nod, runs into the kitchen to get the ice. 

She watches him go, and Jughead's voice drifts over from the bed. “Ronnie?” It's small and groggy. 

 

“Hey. You're awake.” she goes over to him, perching on the edge of his bed. She brushes a few limp strands of hair out of his eyes, fingers grazing his febrile forehead. “Archie's here. He's getting you some ice.”

 

It makes him curl into an even tighter ball. “Why? He's… I'm disgusting like this.” 

 

“No, you're sick.” It's a gentle correction. “Because he deserves to know. He's your friend and he'd be pretty mad if we kept this from him.”

 

Jughead opens his eyes. “I'm still scared.” 

 

“I know.”

 

“I'm so tired, Ronnie.” It's almost a sob. 

 

“I know.” 

 

Archie comes back, holding a white lump. “Is this good?”

 

“Yeah, that should be fine. Help me get him sitting up. We need to ice him down.” 

 

Archie nods, places the bundle on the bedside table. Ronnie pulls the blankets back, Archie gently tugs him up. Ronnie gets the sweat-soaked shirt off of him.

 

Jughead avoids his eyes. 

 

Archie's eyes widen. 

 

Jughead's skinnier from whatever he has, but that's not what's surprising. 

 

It's tattoos of vines and flowers, neon green and pulsing in time with his heart. Crawling up his flanks, his ribs. Curling up his back and torso. It's the small runes woven in with them. 

 

They teach all the human children the runes that the fae use - their meanings, their context. He recognizes the runes, years of teaching finally paying off. 

 

“You're…” Archie sees it then, as the glamour continues to crumble before his eyes, revealing more of the tattoos, the circlet on his head. Jughead seems to actually shine in the light coming from the window by his bed, though he's sweat-slick and tired. His eyes are brighter. 

 

He understands now. Why they taught them as children to avoid the fae at all costs. Though sick unto dying, Jughead's still utterly bewitching. Archie's heart is now a hummingbird desperately trying to escape from his ribcage, his breath coming a little faster from parted lips. He feels like he's been punched in the gut.

  
Ronnie sighs. “Archie Andrews, meet his Majesty Forsythe of the Mountain, third of his name.” She points to the bundle of ice. “And if you could start using that ice before it melts, that'd be fantastic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Questions? Wanna chat? Hmu on Tumblr @pinksugarsheartattack.
> 
> And yes, the second part in this series is coming. Working on it right now for y'all. <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Archie meets his first faerie when he's 10.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you:  
> Mads (beta)  
> Lyxxie (cheerleading)
> 
> This was a hard chapter to write. Hopefully it all paid off.

Archie meets his first faerie when he's 10. 

 

He's with some other kids, running into the forests near the Sweet Water, dangerously close to the border between the human world and the faerie world. A group of boys out to have an adventure. The thrill of being without their parents fizzes through them, makes them louder, brighter.

 

And everyone knows how dangerous that is. It's well known that the fae love to steal children, replace them with their own changelings. 

 

It's dangerous and wonderful and Archie can't stop grinning, his heart pounding so hard it feels like it's going to crash through his chest. His voice tangles with the rest of them, high and sweet.

 

Up until he trips over some rocks and falls into the river. The current is faster than usual today because of the unusual amount of rain Riverdale has gotten that year. 

 

Archie can swim, but not like this. Not in a raging river. He's trying to tread water as best he can, trying to angle himself toward the bank. 

 

“I'll go get someone!” Reggie takes off with some of them. The rest start trying to figure out how to get him out themselves. 

 

Archie is alone. 

 

The river steals his breath, tries to hammer its way into his body. It's merciless, utterly unfettered by human law. The water he keeps choking on tastes like rich, loamy earth. Minerals and rocks. 

 

And then, it starts to go dark. He's still scared, he's still fighting, but his body is getting tired. His legs burn with lactic acid, he feels so much heavier than seconds before.

 

Silence. 

 

It's quiet under the waves as he sinks, even as his little body continues to fight. His kicks get weaker. 

 

He closes his eyes. 

 

And then he's being lifted up, breath rushing back into him and his lungs fight it, seemingly content with giving up. He's coughing so hard that each new breath, having to struggle through stomach acid and mucus. He lands on something soft, and he's momentarily blinded as he opens his eyes. 

 

But then he's too busy coughing up yet more water. 

 

“You very nearly drank the river, little human.”

 

A voice, deep and dry and amused. His eyes focus and he sees that he's on the other side of the river. Lying on a bed of moss, with butterflies and light surrounding them. 

 

He's in faerie territory now.

 

He tenses, ready to run. 

 

“Peace, boy. I have no wish to harm you.” 

 

A woman comes into focus. Long dark hair, sharp chin, high cheekbones. A circlet rests on her brow. A spray of cherry blossoms are behind one slightly pointed ear. 

 

Words fill his mouth, the ones his teachers taught him. The first few manage to escape before a long hand falls against his lips. 

 

Her chuckle is like bells. “Ah, no, little one. It's nice that they’ve taught you the repelling songs, but they will not work on me.”

 

Archie's little chest is heaving, and he feels confused. She removes her hand. 

 

“I told you. I have no wish to harm you.” 

 

“Why?” It's a croak and it makes him cough again. She gently whacks his back to get the rest of any lingering water out. 

 

The faerie woman rolls her eyes. “Because I do not and will not prey on children.” It's a huff. “Contrary to what you've been taught.” She crosses her arms across her chest. 

 

Archie is still confused, but he tries to go with it. “Okay…”

 

“And…” Her expression goes soft. “You remind me of my son.” Her fingers momentarily touch his freckled cheek. “Forsythe would be terribly cross with me if I hurt a creature so lovely as you.”

 

He doesn't know what to say to that, so he just nods. He's still trying to take her in - the start of bright green tattoos curling across her collarbones that move as she breathes, long nails that look like they're made out of glass. She's almost blinding.

 

“Let's get you back now. They still think you're drowning.” She picks him up as if he's feather and not a growing boy made of bones and muscle and freckles. Her dress is soft, silk that's softer than silk, rubbing against his cheek she walks. 

 

“But what about you? Aren't you afraid they'll see you and hurt you?” It's a struggle not to fall asleep as she moves, a gentle lull in her step. It's like drowning all over again. “And how do they still think I'm in the river?”

 

She smiles down at him. “So many questions.” It's a warm, fond smile. “Yes, you're quite like my little boy that way.” A thoughtful pause. “To your first query, no. I am not afraid of a wild group of human boys. They cannot hurt me. To your second question…” her nose scrunches as she thinks. “Well. Time moves differently in this land, and around me. Slower. The time it's taken me to rescue you does not amount to the rather animal thought that you're still in the water.”

 

“I don't get it.”

 

She barks a laugh. “It's okay. You'll figure it out when you're older.”

 

Sleep is tugging at him, and she starts to hum a soft tune. Between her steps and that song, Archie falls asleep. 

 

And when he wakes up, he's back on the Riverdale side of the river, coughing again. Shivering in wet clothes as a group of adults finally appear, his father's shout as he hugs his water-logged son. 

 

And the faerie woman is nowhere to be found.

 

\--

 

Veronica's voice is sharp, cutting into Archie's thoughts. 

 

“Archie?”

 

Archie snaps to. “Oh. Uh. Yeah.” Ice Jughead down before his brain broils in his skull. He grabs the ice towel bundle, opens it to grab a few cubes, put them in a glass by his bed before rolling it all back up, and putting the bundle against his back. 

 

Or almost. His hand stops a hair’s breadth away from actually touching him. He can feel the fever coming off in thick waves of heat from Jughead's skin. 

 

This wouldn't be any different than usual, right, Archie touching him like this? There was a terrible intimacy at work here. 

 

Ronnie notices his hesitance and simply raises a brow in response. Archie takes the hint and applies the ice, making the other boy jump and swear. 

 

(And Archie's honestly impressed with that response.)

 

Jughead shivers. The ice is painful, cutting through the fever that's enveloped his body like fog, like mist. The tattoos seem to react with him, moving with the shivers, covering his whole back, spidering up over his shoulders, twining around his collarbones. 

 

“Fuck.” It's a pitiful,angry whimper. The boy king has his arms wrapped around his knees, head braced against both. It's easier on his back this way, and he doesn't need to see Archie's face, with its pity, its  _ sympathy.  _

 

Archie works in silence for a few minutes, before Jughead twists around, looking at him with those strange eyes. “You want to ask, right? So ask.” His voice hums with contempt. 

 

Veronica just smiles. “Time for more fluids!” It's a chirp as she dances out of the room, going to get more water. Before she makes it out the door, the boy king flips her off. 

 

“Okay…” Archie draws out the word, gathering his thoughts. “Uh. Why are you here?”

 

“Because, despite the popular narrative that being a royal is all sunshine and unicorns, it actually sucks.” Jughead sucks in a breath, as if he's been waiting for this question for a long time. “Because my people are dying, my lands are dying, and there's pretty much no way for me to stop it.” His voice hitches and he hates himself for it. His hands curl into fists on his knees. “Because I don't know what's causing me to get sick like this - whether it's a message to come home from my asshole senators or it's the actual land dying.”

 

There's nothing Archie can say to that. His heart is squeezing so hard in his chest, as if he's being electrocuted and his heart is following the orders of an involuntary muscle response. The muscles in Jughead's back are tensed, fight or flight, and he's trembling with rage. 

 

“Jug.” His voice is soft, hand still moving across his back, watching the tattoos writhe in response. 

 

It seems to only make the other boy angrier, he tenses tighter. “Don't you  _ dare _ feel sorry for me, Archie Andrews.”

 

It's not Jughead's voice. Not to Archie. It's the voice of someone drowning in their own pain, letting the waves carry them off because they're so tired of fighting. 

 

Like the way Archie almost drowned almost seven years before. 

 

It's the voice of a king. A desperate king, ready to fall if it means his people will be safe and saved.

 

Archie wisely chooses to not answer him. “Why are you like this?”

 

The question clearly throws Jughead off. Archie has always gone deeper than he should, getting into things that he shouldn't know about. His tact is surprising. 

 

He clears his throat. “My glamour’s failing. But I don't know the exact reason why.”

 

“You mean, as a message or because of your land - “

 

“Yeah.” His throat is so sore from all of the acid that's made its way through his mouth in the last few days. “You know how glamours work, right?”

 

Archie adjusts the towel, the ice almost gone and water is running down his wrist. “The basic idea? Yeah, I guess. To hide things, right?”

 

“Very good.” The voice is Jughead's again - desert dry. “There's that, and also for protection.” He takes a shuddering breath. “The one they laid on me when I was a baby was supposed to last until I was 30.” He finally stops hiding his face, looking back at Archie. “I mean, every few years, I get it reinforced. It keeps me safe from all of the anti-fae countermeasures around here.”

 

Archie finds himself nodding. It makes sense.

 

“And to hide, you know…” Jughead's gestures to his body, its markings. “I don't really look human this way, right?”

 

“No. You look more beautiful than a regular human.”

 

The air in the room goes still. Archie only realizes what he's said when he sees Jughead's incredulous expression. 

 

Shit. He actually said it out loud. 

 

Archie feels his face going red hot. 

 

_ Shit.  _

 

Jughead raises one eyebrow. “What?” 

 

“I mean…” Archie takes a deep breath. “All of you. You're…”

 

Shit. 

 

At that moment, Ronnie comes back in the room. She stares at the two in their awkward silence, pointedly not looking at each other.

 

“Found some Gatorade.” She waggles the bottle before Jughead's face and he swats at her. “Might be kinda old, but should be okay.”

 

Just the thought of anything going into his body right now causes a reactive wave of nausea.

 

“No.” It's a flat refusal. 

 

“You need fluids. You're pretty depleted right now, Juggie. Water can't replenish all those electrolytes.”

 

Archie raises a brow but says nothing. 

 

The boy king goes red at the use of his nickname. “Once again. No.”

 

“Jughead - “

 

“No.  _ Nyet. Iie. Non. _ ”

 

Ronnie's getting frustrated now. “Damn it, Your Grace - “

 

He looks up and smiles. “Trying to sweet talk me now, Ronnie?” It's not a kind smile, but a taunting one. 

 

Her fists clench. “For fuck’s sake, Forsythe!” It's almost a shout. “Why the fuck are you always so fucking stubborn?”

 

Archie stands, goes over to her. Puts a hand on her arm, noticing for the first time how much cooler it is. Jughead was similarly cool to the touch, normally. Must be a fae thing, then. “Veronica, it's okay. I got this.” His voice is soft. “Go get some air or something.” 

 

She sighs, nodding as her heels click away. 

 

As soon as she's gone and the door’s closed, Archie wheels around. “What the hell, Jug? She just wants to make sure you're okay.”

 

Jughead stretches like a cat, and Archie has to  avert his eyes, trying not to look at him. There's a liquidity to the way he moves now, one he no longer has to hide. A wave of movement from his shoulders to his hips and down, a simple sinuous roll. I kinda just don't want to puke again right now.” He flops back on the bed, running a hand down his face. “My muscles hurt from it.”

 

“Yeah, that aside,  _ Your Grace _ , she didn't deserve that.”

 

Jughead's cheeks turn pink. He shouldn't like the sarcastic drag of his title in Archie's mouth but god help him, he does.  

 

“It's what I pay her for,” Jughead grins. 

 

“You pay her?”

 

“... Okay maybe not me but someone in the Senate does. She's my advisor, and my knight. Makes sure I do my job.”

 

“A knight?” Archie's eyes go wide as he perches on the side of the bed. Then he starts laughing. “I can't see that.” Elegant, prim, and composed Veronica Lodge, with her dresses and pearls? Nope.

 

Jughead raises a brow. “You wouldn't be laughing if you saw her with a weapon, man. She's one of the best. Far better than her mom was at her age, or so I've heard.”

 

And it hits him. He's suddenly very homesick and he doesn't know why. He misses the lush greenery, how it’s always nautical twilight but in different colors. He misses Jellybean's laugh and the shine of Ronnie’s armor. He misses the piskies and wil-o’-wisps, annoying as they are, the revels during the equinoxes and solstices.

 

Feels himself freezing, thinking of the summer solstice revel. His brain paints the absurd image of Archie there, by the bonfires, asters and zinnias, day lilies and clusters of sweet pea in his hair. Runes for love and life and luck written all over him. Woad paint in lines and spirals all over his body.

 

What the  _ fuck _ .

 

He stops that idea before it can go any further. Archie's looking at him, concerned. 

 

“Do you miss it there?” His voice is soft, hesitant, as if approaching a wild creature. 

 

Jughead's eyes meet his. “Every single day.” 

 

“What's it like?” Archie finds himself sitting closer. He can't help himself. 

 

Jughead shrugs. “Like any other place, I guess.” Archie's incredulous expression makes him grin. “Kinda. I mean… it's mostly untouched there. Still forests and lots of green. I guess it's kinda rural.” 

 

“No cities?”

 

“It's not a big place.” Jughead's smile is sad. “Gets smaller everyday.”

 

Shit. Archie could kick himself for bringing that up. “What's your favorite part of it?”

 

“Emotional or physical?”

 

“Both? I guess?” 

 

Jughead sighs. “Okay. Uh. Physical…” his nose scrunches in thought. “I think it's the palace garden.”

 

“Wait. You have a  _ palace _ , not a castle?” That seems ridiculously opulent compared to Jughead's Spartan sort of living. 

 

“My forebears were into living it up.” He lifts a shoulder, lets it drop. 

 

“Why is it your favorite?” 

 

“Because I can see everything from the balcony. Because we cultivated so many types of plants there - edible, non-edible, succulents…” Jughead smiles, lost in memory. “I mean I'm honestly not as into plants as I am into film now, but I miss it. There was such  _ life _ there. It was overflowing with it.”

 

It makes Archie's heart ache to see that expression. There's an innocence there that Archie's never seen before, a joy, a pure happiness in existence for just  _ being _ .

 

“Emotional?” He tries to distract himself from looking at Jughead, the contrast of skin and ink, how the circlet sits on his head, looking like a ray of light, a halo. He’s caught by how  _ kingly _ he looks like this. 

 

How it makes him want to do something more. Hold him? Something like that. 

 

No.

 

That expression on Jug’s face makes him want to shield him. Protect him, keep him from the ugly reality that he may be dying, that his lands and people already are dying in slow motion. 

 

It's a moment before Jughead can answer. When he does, it's almost inaudible. 

 

“I miss making things grow. I miss… The feeling of holding life, of creating it with my hands, Arch.” 

 

He does miss it. He feels that lack in his molars, shivering along like the start of a migraine, in his hands. A lack of weight, a terrible lightness. 

 

Archie has no response for that. But he lets Jughead tiredly lean against him. Maybe, for now, that'll be enough.

 

He doesn't want to break the moment, but he doesn't know what to say. 

 

“Is magic like that?” His voice is soft, letting his back rest against the headboard. Looking at him. Trying not to look at him.

 

“Like what?”

 

“Holding life. Creating it.”

 

Jughead huffs a laugh. “Kinda. It's not that simple. The universe is a closed system, right?”

 

“Yeah. At least from what I can remember what we learned in class.” 

 

“And matter can't be created nor destroyed, only converted.”

 

“Right. That's a natural law.”

 

Jughead sighs, opening his palms, turning to Archie. “Magic is just the  _ act _ of conversion. It only  _ looks _ like creation. You're exchanging the energy cost to fuel it, is all.” 

 

Anemic flames flicker between his palms. They're pale and wan, like Jughead himself, struggling upward. His brow furrows, having to concentrate far, far more than usual. 

 

Archie's lips part, transfixed. Reaching out to touch the small flames -

 

Until his brain reminds him that that's probably a terrible idea.

 

Jughead sees him snatch his hand back at the last second. “No, it's okay,” he murmurs, cautiously shifting the fire to one hand as if cradling a small animal, reaching out for the other boy's retreating hand. The smile he gives Archie is small, crooked. “I usually don't advise this, but since the glamour’s failing… it's not hot. If this were any other time, I'd definitely not recommend not putting your hands into fire.”

 

Their hands meet.

 

Jughead's hand is cupping his, slowly bringing the hand with fire over, transferring it as if it's made of glass into Archie's palm. 

 

“There we go.” It's soft and more to himself than anything else, but he keeps holding on. He doesn't have the strength to break and reroute the physical connection between his hand and the flames, but uses Archie's palm as a conduit instead. “How's that?”

 

It's lukewarm, and gentle. “It kinda tickles.” Archie would laugh but he's too amazed. He passes his other hand through it. “I'm kinda reminded of Calcifer, from  _ Howl’s Moving Castle _ .”

 

“Except it's not sentient and petty, wanting all of your bacon to burn,” Jughead chuckles, rolling their hands around so it's more manageable, contained. “I always thought that both Miyazaki and Wynne-Jones knew fae in real life. It felt too true to life otherwise.”

“You think they did?” Archie can't take his eyes off of the longer, thinner fingers cradling his own.

 

“Maybe. The Mountain isn't the only country of fae in the world. Both England and Japan are older countries with a healthier appreciation for us. This country is too young for it, I think.”

 

“You think we don't appreciate you here?” Jughead's words make Archie look up, his feature soften. 

 

“I'm sure some of you do.” Jughead can't quite look at him, hearing both the curiosity and hurt in his voice. “I know  _ you _ do. But look what they teach you guys -- the disarming songs as soon as you can talk, the places where you can find the things to hurt us as soon as you can walk…” He sighs, feeling himself starting to tire, the flames guttering out. It winks out from top to bottom, and Jughead leans a little more heavily against both the headboard and Archie’s shoulder, letting go of his hand. 

 

“What did they teach you when you were a kid?” Archie lets his head tilt back against the headboard, turning to look at the boy king.

 

“How to hide and defense tactics, mostly. Me, and JB, and Ronnie, we were a bit different - we had more power so we had to learn more about the  _ psychology  _ behind your lot’s methodologies about us, too.”

 

“Any of it make sense?”

 

Jughead laughs softly. “Mostly no. But intellectually, I got it. Emotionally was where I got lost.” Shakes his head. “You guys feel threatened. That's valid. I just wish we could've negotiated terms while it was still possible.”

 

“It's not possible now?” That makes Archie's heart drop into his feet.

 

“There might be a chance. But I just feel like it's all gone too far. I think the last time we actually got to the active negotiation stage of things was when my mom was a kid.”

 

Archie blinks. He has no clue how they age, and it's obvious from his expression. His smile is small and wry. 

 

“A very  _ long _ time ago. Before this town even had a name, in all probability.”

 

Archie can't imagine that kind of life, on such a large scale. It shows in his face. 

 

“Maybe you'll be able to talk us into peace negotiations.”

 

“Maybe.” Jughead shrugs. “If I manage to not die from this, anything's possible.”

 

Archie looks at him, his expression. Despite everything, Jughead looks as if he's made his peace with death. He's not fighting it, because he knows he can't win. He's not exactly being passive about it, but he's also not going kicking and screaming, either. 

 

Probably because he's too exhausted to fight, he thinks. The boy king seems paler and quieter than before, having shown Archie a small pathetic example of what he could do. 

 

“Is there anything we can do to stop this?” Archie turns to him, heart heavy. 

 

“If Ronnie or JB are able to get a replacement glamour to me soon, that should do the trick.” Jughead’s looking out the window again. He can't look at Archie, can't stand to look at the sadness he's caused. “It might take a bit of time to get me back up on my feet, but I should be fine.”

 

“And if they can't?” Archie feels his heart getting faster, louder in his ears. This is not what he wants to hear. 

 

“Then I'm done.” It's a simple, elegant answer. 

 

“How long would you have?”

 

“Not sure. But from the way things are progressing... days. Maybe a week, tops, but that might be overly optimistic at this point.”

 

They're silent for a little while, both looking at the enormity of mortality. 

 

“It may be a relief,” Jughead sighs, finally reaching for the Gatorade. “I'm so tired, Arch.” His voice is small. 

 

Archie takes his hand. “I'll be here.” Gives it a squeeze before standing, pulling out his phone. “Is it okay if I crash on the couch?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr: @pinksugarsheartattack


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “One day, boy, my son will need you. He'll need your help. I saved your life that day, in the river. All things come with a cost. My price is you helping Forsythe when he needs you the most.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks:  
> Mads (beta and cheerleading)  
> Lyxxie (cheerleading and midnight conversations about writing, fic, and these idiot boys)
> 
> Most of all, y'all for reading this.

Three more days pass. 

 

Archie only leaves to grab clothes and food, or other supplies as needed. He's already told his dad that something's going on with Jughead, that he needs his help. Fred doesn't seem to mind, only tells him to do what he needs to do, and to keep him updated.

 

Jughead's downward decline is uneven; one moment he’s okay (well, what passes for okay right now), the next he’s spending hours emptying his stomach for hours at a stretch. Shivering then blistering with fever. Sleeping for half a day then awake for all of  another. 

 

By the third day, Archie's had enough. He can't keep watching this, it just hurts too fucking much. He's about to give Ronnie an ultimatum when she gives him a list of things to get and her credit card, hustling him out of the house. 

 

When he gets back, he finds Ronnie sweating and crouched on the floor over a large chalk circle. Runes cover the surface of the hardwood floors, along with other symbols he doesn't know. 

 

“Hey. You're back.” Her smile is tired, her eyes exhausted. 

 

He holds up a plastic bag. “I managed to find it all.”

 

Ronnie sits, reaching for a bottle of water. “Good. I was a little worried you wouldn't be able to.” He gives her the bag and she paws through it, scooting over to let him sit next to her. 

 

“How is he?”

 

She sighs. “Asleep, finally. He just finally kinda crashed.”

 

“He needed to,” Archie agrees, watching her work, as she puts certain objects in certain places in and around the circle. “What's all this?”

 

She freezes, can't look at him. “A transfer matrix I'm trying to set up.”

 

“... Why? And for what?”

 

“I sent another nudge to Jellybean while you were gone. If she gets back to me, we can get that glamour though this thing faster than the usual way.” 

 

A long silence follows.

 

“What else is it for, Ronnie?”

 

Silence. 

 

“Ronnie.” It's a soft prompt on the edge of a plea, one she can't ignore. 

 

“It's also…” she takes a deep breath. “It's also for energy transfers.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“So I can give him what's left of my time here.” She finally looks at him, but her voice is soft, hoarse. A little broken. 

 

Archie's heart stops. “What do you mean?”

 

“It's my job. To protect him, to keep him alive. It's also… He just wants to live, Archie. He wants to be free. I can't and won't fault him that. So… If I can trade places with him, I will.” 

 

“So you… You'd literally give your life to him? For him?” It feels like a punch in the gut, but it shouldn't. She's Jughead's advisor, his  _ knight _ . And isn't that what they're supposed to do? Make sure their wards live no matter what?

 

Her nod is crisp. “If I have to, I will.”

 

“Veronica... Ronnie. He wouldn't want that.” Archie takes her hands in his own. “Okay? Trust me. He wouldn't.”

 

“You don’t get it, Archie. If he dies, we all do. His life is directly connected to the land. I'd be dying anyway. Hell, I already am.” She's trying not to raise her voice, trying not to show this human boy the rage and the fury she's held in her since she was small, since her mother told her what their family has done since the start. “I want my death to mean something.” 

 

In that moment, he notices that her hands are warm, getting close to hot. He sees her eyes, how tired they are, the sweat disappearing into her hairline. How pale she is.

 

“Ronnie…No. Not you too?” 

 

She yanks her hands out of his, goes back to working on the circle.

 

They're both dying.

 

Both of them, Ronnie and Juggie. 

 

_ Jesus. _

 

_ “ _ I told you,” she finally huffs after a few minutes. “If he dies, we all do.”

 

Silence as she continues to work, scrawling runes in a frenzied hand. 

 

“What if… What if you used me?” His voice is small and soft.

 

She freezes mid-rune. “Do you know what you're asking me to do?” Her voice is dangerously low, cold as ice. 

 

“I mean don't use all of what's left but can't you use a little? A decade or two? I don't mind, if it helps him.” 

 

She finishes the rune and puts down the chalk, finally looking at him. Hair from her messy bun has gotten loose, falling in her face. Chalk dust of different colors smeared on her cheeks and forehead makes her look just like the things, the monsters Archie was warned about as a child. 

 

“You want me to take ten to twenty years from you, from your life?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“To give to a faerie? A king but he's a faerie?”

 

“Yes. I do. Veronica, I do.” 

 

“But why?”

 

Archie takes a breath, knowing a simple truth now as it floats to the surface, along with a memory. 

 

_ “One day, boy, my son will need you. He'll need your help. I saved your life that day, in the river. All things come with a cost. My price is you helping Forsythe when he needs you the most.” _

 

_ “But how? I don't even know him.” _

 

_ The Queen's smile is knowing but sad. “You will. You'll be best friends, I think. That is my price. So please, little human. Help my son.” _

 

“Because I know he'd do the same for me. And for you.”

 

Her expression softens. “Archie. I can't.” She sounds like she's in pain. “I can't because it's not that... precise.” 

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“You're human. Your lifespan is fixed. You have a set amount of years you'll live. But me and Jug… We don't. He's a royal and I'm high up on that food chain, too. So when I take from my years and add it onto his…”

 

Archie can see where this is going. “It may exceed my own, however that may be. Is that what you mean?”

 

She nods sadly. “That's it exactly. Our magic is just science that you guys don't get yet, and what we're only starting to really understand, ourselves. That's why this is going to be so messy, Archie. The transfer thing is relatively new. Aside from knowing that it works in general, it's the details that are still mostly unknown.” Ronnie braces herself up against the wall with a sigh. Her muscles ache, and she's so tired. 

 

“It takes years in chunks. And those chunks...vary? In number?” Archie's tone is one of musing, trying to puzzle it out.

 

“Yeah. That's right.”

 

“Fuck,” he laughs tiredly with a shake of his head.

 

“Yeah. That's about right,” she agrees. 

 

“So now what?”

 

“We wait. That's about all we can do at this point.”

 

“When do we stop waiting?”

  
  


Ronnie has no answer for him. 

 

***

 

_ One month after Archie nearly drowns, he's summoned.  _

 

_ All children know about summoning. How it begins, why the fae do it. How to avoid it once it begins. _

 

_ Except Archie can't avoid it. The song is too strong, too loud. It's infecting him, his free will.  _

 

_ He tries. He fights as hard as he can, but ends up sneaking out of his room at dusk to meet her a few blocks away from his house near a wild blackberry thicket. _

 

_ The Faerie Queen. She hasn't called herself as such, but he knows it now. He knows it from the dreams he's had, after doing his own quiet research.  _

 

_ “Hello again, little human.”  _

 

_ “Hello again, Your Grace.” He's not sure if he should bow or not, so instead he just gives her a crisp nod. It makes her smile.  _

 

_ “Clever boy. I was right to save you.” _

 

_ He has nothing for that. “Why am I here?”  _

 

_ “I've come to claim my price for saving you, boy.”  _

 

_ “Price?” His heart beats faster, and like an unwelcome interruption, fear makes its presence known. _

 

_ “Yes. The Law of Equal Exchanges, little human. Man and fae alike are governed by it. Nature is, too. You wanted so desperately to live. Now you must pay for that avoidance of an early death.”  _

 

_ “But how? I don't have any money.” _

 

_ “You won't need money. A deed will suffice.” _

  
  


Archie sits upright, heart pounding, trying to catch his breath. 

 

Soft light from outside suggests that it's early morning. 

 

That's it. 

 

He jams his shoes on his feet, grabs his keys, and goes. He tries to be quiet, knowing that Ronnie was up late with finishing her circle but he's excited and terrified with what he's remembered. 

 

He runs as fast as he can back home. 

  
  


_ “I need you to give him this, when you see him suffering.” She crouches a bit to get eye level with him, pulling out a small velvet box from one of the many folds in her dress.  _

 

_ “What is it?” Archie can't help his curiosity now, reaching for it. She places it in his cupped palms.  _

 

_ “Something that should help give him more time, should he need it.”  _

  
  


Up and up and up into the treehouse, scrambling. Archie knows there isn't much time left.  _ How _ he knows is unknown to him, just a violent seething in his gut that licks at his ears, scratches at his spine to get him to go faster. 

 

He pulls up one of the loose floorboards, and there it is. The same velvet box, discolored by light, covered in dust. He grabs it, and goes. 

  
  


_ “Can I open it?” _

 

_ That makes the Queen laugh. “So polite for such a savage little human! Thank you for asking. You may, but please do not take out what's inside. Try not to touch it.”  _

 

_ “Will it hurt me if I do?”  _

 

_ “No,I don't think it will. But my son has to be the only one to touch it. It's made for him.”  _

  
  


Archie hurries back, almost tripping over himself. As soon as he's in the door, Ronnie's up. 

 

“What's wrong?” All of the sharp words on her tongue die when she sees his face. He's reaching for a bottle of water and downing it before he can answer, then brings out the box. 

 

Her eyes widen. “Where did you get that?”

 

“It's a long story. Go get him up.” 

 

Ronnie follows him into Jughead's bedroom. Jughead's a muttering, shivering lump under his comforter as Ronnie gently taps him. 

 

“Juggie. Wake up.” Her voice is soft, hesitant. 

 

“I'm awake.” His answer is muffled by all the blankets he's swaddled in. “What?” It's sharp, annoyed. 

 

“Archie has something for you.” 

 

“Unless you want me to get in there and drag you out.. “ and then realizes what he just said, turning a blotchy pink. Ronnie grins but says nothing in response. 

 

“Fine.” It's all but a grunt as Jughead's sitting up, yanking the blankets off of his head. “Now. What is it?” The frown he wears is deep, his beanie lost somewhere in the sheets. 

 

“Here.” Archie hands him the box gently and Jughead freezes.

 

“Where… Where did you get this?” He won't look at Archie, his voice almost entirely inaudible.

 

“Someone gave it to me when I was little.” The redhead perches himself on the side of the bed, Ronnie at the foot of it. “And she told me to give it to you, when the time was right.”

 

Jughead's hands are the only things moving as he opens the box. 

 

“She saved my life. I think she was your last Queen.” Archie’s smile is fond. “She never called me by my name. But she said I reminded her of you.”

 

There, lying on a small bed of dark silk, is a ring. It looks much like the designs carved into his circlet, but instead they're fleshed out, thorns and berries and leaves forged in bronze. 

 

“Why didn't you tell me?” Jughead's voice gets smaller, sadder. 

 

“Because she made me forget, I think.” Archie rubs his forehead in emphasis. “I mean I remember when she saved me but the rest…”

 

“Got buried?” Ronnie's voice is gentle. 

 

“That's the best word for it, I think.” He looks at Jughead. “She warned me to never touch it or take it out of its box. Said only you could do that, or I might get hurt.” 

 

Jughead's so, so tired. Just looking at the ring brings tears to his eyes that he tries to wipe away, not let them see. 

 

“She said it would give you a little more time, Juggie.” He puts a hand on the boy King’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “What is it?”

 

Jughead sniffs. “Fuck. It's…” he takes a deep breath. “It's a transfer vessel. She drained out her own life so she could hide it away, and give it to me.” 

 

He finally looks up at Archie. “My mother. She…” His breath is shuddering now, with old wounds being torn back open. “She took the rest of her own life, and gave it to me.” 

 

And then Archie's arms are tight around him, around his frail fading fae body shaking with exhaustion and effort and emotion. 

 

What must that feel like, to know your mother opened herself up, drained was what was inside all for you? Archie imagines a hollow heart suddenly filling, overflowing, becoming its own sea. Trying to drown its owner. 

 

Archie shudders, tightening his arms around this boy, this king, who might fly apart if he opens his arms and releases him. He rocks gently, his lips on the crown of the boy king's head.

  
Jughead closes his eyes and lets that old wound reopen.  He buries his face in the other boy's shoulder, and for the first time since his mother's death, begins to weep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments? Questions? Concerns? Hmu on Tumblr: @pinksugarsheartattack.

**Author's Note:**

> Welp, back to working on murder husbands! ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ


End file.
